A Shot in the Bark
by Veterization
Summary: Shawn/Lassiter oneshot. Shawn comes home with a puppy, and Lassiter is less than amused.


_Disclaimer_: I do not own Psych.

Carlton Lassiter is not a man comfortable with dealing with matters of burden to him that are outside of his comfort zone.

There are perhaps approximately three things on the daily hassle scale that he can deal with on an everyday basis. He can deal with McNab delivering him tepid coffee in the morning. He can deal with petty theft alerts from downtown interrupting his concentration on a serious homicide investigation. He can handle Shawn Spencer's irksome antics that are notorious for stealing police credit from underneath his nose and throwing pop culture references at his face in the middle of the day. He can also, quite well, handle a gun.

What he cannot handle, however, is coming home from a headache-inducing day only to find a puppy sprawled over a picnic blanket on the living room floor while his boyfriend dangles greasy strips of bacon he was looking forward to preparing for tomorrow's breakfast over the dog's nose.

"This can't be happening."

Shawn looks up from his position on the floor, draped over the picnic blanket beside the energetic puppy in the middle of burrowing a tunnel to Spain through the polished floorboards. There is bacon around him everywhere, making Shawn's fingers greasy, his elbows greasy, and even his lips a little greasy from where he snagged snacks while feeding the new disturbance in Lassiter's life.

"Lassie!" Shawn says, much too happily for the throb stinging through Lassiter's temples, "You will never guess what I got."

He says it like he's waiting for Lassiter to guess and bounce around and join the cuddling commencing on the floor, Shawn's pink tongue sticking out between the line of his teeth as he smiles while Lassiter loosens his tie and tries not to overreact. Most people wouldn't refer to Lassiter as a loquacious, approachable people person with his social skills stretching merely to harboring a talent of interrogating and intimidating suspects rather than making nice with friends. His skill level of bonding with animals is no improvement.

"Please tell me this is a temporary dogsitting you are involved in that I don't have to be," Lassiter says, attempting to keep the desperation out of his voice as he watches the puppy begin to gnaw on the television stand and growl at the DVD collection. It is, by society's definition, adorable, with floppy ears and a light brown coat that slides smoothly down its tiny back, head marginally larger than the rest of its body as it ambles and stumbles around the area like a toddler learning how to walk. Lassiter never had much time for growing babies, regardless of sweet blubbering noises and little fingers, and has even less time for cute puppies.

"Say hello to Lassie Jr." Shawn says, as if proud to be able to pass on a nickname that he associates his boyfriend with to a wiggly, brown-eyed puppy epitomizing a face of utter innocence that manages to tweak Lassiter's heart like a guitar string. He refuses to look it in the eye as Shawn picks its tiny body up from the floor and sticks it in Lassiter's nose.

"Please god no."

"Lassie, don't be the already digested pieces of bacon by my foot," says Shawn sternly, still extending the puppy, and even when Lassiter closes his eyes he still can make out the disgustingly adorable sound of squirming in front of his face, "We're like two men and a puppy. It's all of the adorable dog movies in the world minus the inevitable puppy slaughtering at the end."

"At least tell me it's trained," Lassiter says, and he can't believe he's acquiescing to keeping this monster until the words leave his mouth without permission.

"Please, he'll be jumping through flaming hoops after a week in my hands. Well, maybe not flaming. And maybe not my hands. Maybe Gus'."

"And what about _right now_?"

"Um," Shawn mumbles, addressing the carpet as he rubs at the back of his neck, "Right now, he likes to roll around in your civil war memento flag."

"You're telling me that this is an untrained rascal that doesn't know simple commands?" Lassiter roars and is promptly interrupted by Shawn once again sticking the puppy's tiny wet nose in his face.

"Please, Mister Detective," Shawn's voice, high-pitched and muffled as his words become stifled in the dog's coat of hair, "Please let me stay."

The dog's warm, chocolately eyes stare at Lassiter's face, lithe body wiggling as it leans forward in Shawn's grip to sniff at Lassiter's cheek and lick over his afternoon stubble with a wet tongue threatening to slobber over Lassiter's shoes for years to come if he indulges in Shawn's insufferable yearnings for small animals that will inescapably urinate on all of the things Lassiter cherishes. He wrinkles his nose and stares down the puppy. The puppy is not intimidated, successfully stomping on Lassiter's only hope for controlling scalawags such as the creature in front of him. His tail begins wagging and Lassiter sighs when he realizes he's slowly being manipulated by an animal the size of his shoe.

"Fine!" Lassiter grumbles, swiftly scratching the dog behind his fuzzy golden ears to sate his unexplainably strong desire to pet his soft fur before taking a step back and examining the apartment. There is a lumpy plaid pet bed lounging in the corner where his antique gun collection used to proudly stand and next to the kitchen counters sits two shiny dog bowls where chunks of sausage and puddles of water have already sloshed over the bowls and landed on the floor. Squeaky toys lay forgotten on the floor as Lassiter spies a thoroughly chewed couch pillow resting, mangled, on the floor and teeth marks marring the bottom of the television stand.

Lassiter takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and reminds himself that even being a highly acclaimed Santa Barbara detective doesn't grant him the right to murder his boyfriend.

O O O O O

It takes half an hour of playing fetch at the beach, Shawn slipping bits of steak under the table to a salivating, begging puppy winding between their legs while they eat, and generous amounts of relentless petting before Lassie Jr. finally passes out on the rug, full tummy rising and falling in even breaths and tiny nose snuffling in slumber, and two hours later while Lassiter pins Shawn to the mattress and lets him nip and mouth at his jaw, he's completely forgotten about the puppy's existence and overall hindrance in his life.

"C'mere," Lassiter growls, voice rough and husky after a good half an hour of breathless kissing on the couch before the undressing commenced and both of them wordlessly agreed to move their activities upstairs with some graceless stumbling plus groping through the hallway. Shawn pulls his swollen lips away from the sharp line of Lassiter's jaw to collect his lost breath and stare up at the man leaving him immobile on the mattress as Lassiter pushes his wrists down onto the sheets and connects their equally bruised mouths in a heated kiss. He tugs on Shawn's lower lip and nips at the sensitive flesh trapped between his teeth, hungry for the taste of his mouth that is always reminiscent of sweet summer pineapple.

"Carlton," Shawn breathes through a moan, garbled and sudden against the wet heat of Lassiter's mouth slanted against his own as his tongue swipes over the seam of his lips, "God."

Lassiter wrestles with the limbs and sheets entangled around his body to prop himself up over the flushed body writhing under his ministrations to yank at the hem of Shawn's shirt while Shawn's fingers fumble with Lassiter's shirt buttons. This, this part right here, the breathless tumbling on sticky sheets while they both attempt to control the chaos and fight for the dominance and pour a week's worth of exasperation into feverish kisses that leave them both hard and aching in their pants that eventually turn gentle after their post-coital high and aggressive lust simmers down, this is what makes dealing with Shawn's psychic tomfoolery and constant need for attention worth it all. Lassiter's hand slides between their bodies to grip Shawn's thigh to squeeze and reach for the zipper of his pants while Shawn thrusts his hips into his palm in search of friction.

Lassiter's in the middle of being jerked down on top of Shawn's shirtless chest by his tie to wipe the smirk off of Shawn's shiny lips with his insistent mouth when suddenly, the mattress wobbles with the weight of another body invading a party Lassiter wishes to remain strictly private. A small, wet nose nudges at Lassiter's hip, jumps onto his backside, and whines pitifully.

"What the—"

Lassiter jerks back from Shawn's mouth when their teeth knock together and threaten to dislocate one of his bottom teeth as the dog crawls up the length of his spine and digs his tiny claws into his vertebrae as it bounces in between his shoulders. He growls, twists around to glare at the puppy whimpering for attention on his backside, and is about to shoo it off the bed by throwing Shawn's shoe into the hall to divert its concentration on currently destroying any sexual peak mounting in between their bodies when Shawn bodily rolls Lassiter onto his back on the rumpled sheets and coos at the puppy. The moment, it is safe to say, has been ruined.

"Awww, did someone get lonely?" Shawn murmurs, reaching out to nuzzle the puppy's squirming head. Lassiter watches while his indignation mounts at the sight of his boyfriend neglecting to finish what he started when he began pressing lazy kisses on Lassiter's neck and tickling his hand up his inner thigh when he was in the middle of washing the dishes a few hours prior. His erection, abandoned, presses against the constriction of his jeans and whines for attention. The puppy, it seems, whines more loudly.

"Shawn Spencer, if you don't lock that dog out of this bedroom and get back to pulling off my pants I will be exiling you to the couch for a week," Lassiter grits out. Shawn's erection seems to have wilted upon the negligent dumping of Lassiter's body on his side of the bed and the commencement of the puppy snuggling session in replacement of any handjobs that may have improved Lassiter's long day at the office that offered him no insight on his current homicide case, and the sight of Shawn's pants lacking a prominent tent that was pressing into Lassiter's hip a mere two minutes ago is a serious blow to his ego in terms of his ability to adequately sexually please.

"Slow your roll, Carly Davidson, this poor puppy just wants to sleep in the bed with us."

"No! Spencer, _no_. If it sleeps with us now, it'll sleep with us when it's over one hundred pounds and taking up all of the room."

Shawn, however, has better ideas than to listen. He picks up the puppy, tongue peeking out as if cheekily grinning at Lassiter for managing to monopolize all of Shawn's attention with his manipulative eyes and sad whimpers alone, and proceeds to nuzzle their cheeks together while Lassie Jr. tries to lick at Shawn's stubbly chin. Lassiter grinds his teeth.

"Lassie Jr. is not an _it_, but rather a _he_. Or possibly a she. Every time I try and check whatever I'm looking for just seems to disappear."

Lassiter's abandoned erection, could it handle a weapon, would be in the process of holding Shawn at gunpoint to encourage him to put down the dog and finish his mandatory handjob if only to appease Lassiter's newfound abhorrence of puppies. The worst part is that Lassie Jr. is still adorable, his floppy ears are still lovable, and his small, fuzzy paws are still begging to be taken on a walk. Lassiter looks steadfastly away.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten._

He finishes counting, indulges in a slow, mollifying exhale, and opens his eyes. The puppy is still on top of his freshly washed comforter, now littered with golden strands of dog hair, bouncing into Shawn's lap and attempting to catch a razzle toy Shawn produces out of thin air to entice the puppy with. Lassiter takes another breath and employs a strategy outside of the intimidation family that instead branches into clever coercion.

He scoots forward on the bed, slides his palms around Shawn's hipbones, and melds his chest against his backside, tantalizingly free of any obtrusive garments, and plants an innocent line of kisses up to his ear. He licks at the lobe like he knows Shawn likes it and murmurs over his eardrum, "Shawn, I've got my own Lassie Jr. you could help me take care of," and accentuates his suggestive statement with a push of his hips into Shawn's backside.

Shawn, unfazed, tsks like he's Lassiter's mother finding him in the cookie jar before dinner again and continues to amuse himself by tickling the puppy's tiny stomach. "C'mon, Lassie, we've got a puppy to take care of now."

"_Bah_!" Lassiter exclaims, none too happily, and flops down on his side of the bed, desperately trying to drum up visions of snowglobes or Guster without his pants on to dampen the strength of his now sufficiently inconvenient erection, "We're not parents, Spencer!" He shucks off his pants, hurls them at the dresser, and wrestles the sheets out from underneath his legs to settle underneath them even though he's much too hot and much too bothered for sleep, shooting Shawn one more acrimonious look before pushing him off the bed with his foot.

"Hey!" Shawn yelps from the floor as the dog goes scampering down the hall, "No way am I taking the couch! Make room for me and your son!"

"Definitely not my child!" Lassiter roars, doing his best to cover every inch of the mattress with his limbs by spreading his body out into a graceless gargantuan X to deny Shawn the pleasure of spending the night on a mattress significantly more comfortable than the lumpy couch downstairs that still stinks of the homemade smoothie that Shawn managed to spill during a manly jump of fright while watching _My Bloody Valentine_after midnight half a year ago.

Shawn huffs, musters up his maturity to deliver a tongue sticking from his mouth in Lassiter's direction, and stomps dramatically from the room. Lassiter is halfway done with his sigh of relief when Shawn storms back into the bedroom, Lassie Jr. tucked safely against his side as he throws back the covers and snuggles persistently into the bed, the dog offering a furry buffer between both men.

"Get that beast out of here!"

"Do you hear something, Lassie Jr.?"

"You are a child! Good luck getting into my pants tomorrow when you're horny!"

"The spirits are sensing an aggressive man with salt and pepper chest hair, but I don't hear anyone. What about you, Lassie Jr.?"

"Stop talking to that damn dog like he can understand you!"

"There's that hostile, ghostly breeze again!"

Lassiter yanks on the sheets, turns on his side, and shuts his eyes to block out the sound of adorable puppy panting and Shawn grappling with the sheets to settle into his side of the bed. He pictures the puppy, sleepy and sated, tucked against Shawn's chest and breathing softly into his shoulder and tries his hardest not to be jealous of a dog that doesn't have opposable thumbs, a license to carry a gun, or his immaculate facial structure.

O O O O O

Lassiter is not exactly pleased when he wakes up.

Firstly, he's wrapped up in Shawn's arms with Shawn breathing hot morning air onto his neck while his arm remains firmly draped over Lassiter's hip, which is undeniably comfortable and frustratingly so considering he's not quite pleased with his position of Little Spoon and the fact that he's still supposed to be upset after last night's less than pleasant incident in which Shawn's prioritized a puppy over his boyfriend who was more than willing to have rough sex and then indulge in Shawn's affinity for cuddling.

Begrudgingly, he puts his fury on hold in order to enjoy the cozy warmth of Shawn's naked chest blanketing his back and his leg thrown over his hip, especially upon the realization that the puppy is no longer squeezed between both of them and hogging his boyfriend. The pleasure of a lazy morning in bed before work and duty call for him to compile the facts of the homicide case he left open-ended last night is abruptly cut to a halt, however, when he hears the sound of nails clicking on hardwood floors and scraping against the porch door. A whine, low and needy, sounds proceeding the scratching. Lassiter growls and flushes his pleasant morning in bed down the toilet, worming out from Shawn's octopus limbs despite his sleepy murmurs of protest. He thunders down the stairs to locate the racket and promptly put an end to it.

He catches Lassie Jr. in the middle of the act, except it would have been a lot more satisfying were the dog a criminal Lassiter could now apprehend and arrest behind bars where it would no longer interfere in Lassiter's already stressful life. The dog seems to have given up on scratching through the glass of the porch door to reach his designated bathroom among the bushes, instead opting for his second option: crouching on the carpet and urinating in a steady stream that is slowly but surely seeping through the fibers of the flooring and creating a large yellow puddle that Lassiter is by no means cleaning up.

"SHAWN SPENCER!" Lassiter hollers. He's rewarded, thirty seconds later, by the sound of a body crashing into a few walls and stumbling down the stairs before he's face-to-face with a disoriented Shawn, wrapped up in what Lassiter can only assume is a silk bathrobe and eyelids at half-mast as his retinas are met with the bright light of the morning sun. Lassiter resists the urge to shake him awake, instead wasting his energy on pointing accusatorily at the puppy still occupied with relieving his bladder.

"Terrible timing, Lassie, I was having a great dream where I was having a showdown with a squirrel who thought it would be funny to steal my nuts even though I told him my boyfriend was quite attached to—"

"Your _dog_," Lassiter spits out, taking great care to emphasize the word as if speaking of an unpleasant STD, "has decided to use the carpet as his toilet. And are you wearing silk?"

"China's finest," Shawn takes a moment to wink his sleepy left eye in Lassiter's general direction before surveying the damage on the carpet, "Oh noooo. Lassie Jr.! That better be pineapple juice!"

"It's not pineapple juice," Lassiter grinds his teeth together until he can feel his canines begin to pulverize in his mouth. He swallows back his stress and stares at the puddle, wondering if the sight of Shawn kneecaps aching on the floor and his hands pruned with soap suds as he rubs the tinge of yellow from the carpet for the better part of the afternoon will relieve him of his exasperation developing ever since he came home to find a golden brown, furry vermin scampering around.

One hour later, when Shawn is stooped over the stubborn stain with sponge and cleaning solution in hand and Lassiter is absent-mindedly scratching Lassie Jr. behind his furry ears while he watches the amusement of Shawn Spencer doing a day's worth of honest labor, Lassiter feels slightly better.

O O O O O

It takes a total of three days until Lassiter finds out that while Shawn has found himself a dog, he's failed to find dog food, instead attempting to coax Lassie Jr. into accepting a diet that is purely made of chopped chunks of pineapple.

The ride to PetSmart makes Lassiter feel frighteningly like a father driving his son to the nearest pet supply store to teach his child a lesson about properly treating and nurturing young puppies to adulthood after inadvertently causing the premature death via vacuum cleaner of a hamster. Feeling only faintly ill, Lassiter wonders if Henry has ever been caught in a situation like this during Shawn's childhood while, in the seat beside him, Shawn sings along to Curt Smith on the radio and neglects the safety of his seatbelt. Lassiter smacks him across the chest.

"Seatbelt!" Lassiter scolds, and promptly turns off the radio, "If you die on this car ride, I won't be taking care of that dog."

A drive that normally takes five minutes takes a total of eighteen thanks to the shenanigans that Shawn orchestrated involving the shameless foul play of resting his hand on Lassiter's upper thigh and letting his thumb play with the zipper of his pants while Lassiter gripped the steering wheel and tried to focus on the road in front of him that was rapidly becoming less interesting in comparison to Shawn's wandering hands, leading to Lassiter ultimately missing the right turn into the parking lot twice.

Once in the store, the real trouble begins.

"There's just so many. It's like trying to choose between Fruit Loops and Captain Crunch. And Cocoa Puffs. And throw in some Cocoa Pebbles, even though I still don't know the difference. They're both chocolately goodness."

"_Shawn_," Lassiter says sharply, pointing to the aisle stocked full of bags of dog food separated by brand, size, and individual pet needs to attempt to refocus Shawn's attention. The selection, he admits, is unnecessarily large, and Lassiter's positive that if people spent as much time serving Sweet Lady Justice as they did posing oblivious pets for photos to be plastered on the front of sacks of dog food, the streets would be clean of petty thefts and speeding cars without a single policeman having to step in as a peacemaker. A small dog, all styled fur and no legs, yips loudly and stumbles straight into Lassiter's legs and attempts to gnaw off the hem of his pants before its owner shoos it hurriedly into the next aisle. Lassiter glares. The dog barks.

"The kernels for growing puppies that prevents tooth decay or the brand for youthful dogs that thwarts heart disease? I can't make decisions like this. I can't have a dog with dentures or a dog with a mechanic heart. Where's the dog food for the flatulent puppies?"

"Shawn, I swear, I'm two seconds away from leaving you here to carry that dog food home on your back so I can go get some lunch before the sun sets."

Shawn turns away from the lengthy aisle piled with endless sacks of colorful dog food and takes a good moment to stare at Lassiter indignantly. The indignation, while weak at best, still manages to reproach Lassiter for considering letting Shawn drag home a twenty-pound sack of kibble while he enjoys the tranquility of the doughnut shop two blocks down the street.

"Lassie, I'm appalled at you," Shawn says, "What if this was our adopted Russian baby with striking blue eyes that would put Misha Collins to shame? Would you really be buying those little cans of peach mush because that's all toothless toddlers can chew without checking what sort of toxins you were forcing down our child's innocent throat?"

Lassiter blinks and takes a moment to process the images of Russian babies delivered by storks through his chimney while Shawn glares at him from the pet food aisle. If anything, the image's details cement further and morph into a picture where Shawn is donning Dad-Of-The-Year aprons and feeding bubbly, giggling baby spoonfuls of apple sauce. It's an image that he, oddly enough, has no trouble accepting, and Lassiter quickly snaps himself out of his reverie and concentrates on the task at hand.

"You think we're going to have children?"

"Let it be on the record that they don't _have_to be Russian. I'd be okay with anything that spawns a child with hair as full as mine."

"You seriously think we'll have a family?" Lassiter says, and continues desperately trying to process this startling information. Suddenly, the puppy at home chewing on his shoelaces seems much less like a predator to be wary of but rather a predecessor preparing him for forthcoming endeavors he and Shawn are ultimately headed toward. He glances down the aisle of multi-colored dietary choices in the shape of lumpy sacks of dog food and feels remarkably confident at the sight.

"Well, we could also have a cult," Shawn proffers, heaving a large bag out from its confinement in the aisle to examine its ingredient properties. "Or we could start our own mafia. I've tried to pitch the idea to Gus before, but he's never quite shared my enthusiasm."

"You know that would be illegal, right?"

Shawn shrugs and slides the bag back into its spot. "Then would you be interested in starting a cast and crew to act out all of _Wicked_?"

"No," Lassiter deadpans, "I'd rather shine Guster's entire shoe collection."

"Then I guess I'll just have to settle for the family option," Shawn says, noncommittally shrugging his shoulders, muscles that quickly sag and buckle under the immense weight of a bag of kibble draped over his back like a sack of potatoes as he slides it from the shelf. "Ooof, a little help here, Lassipants."

Lassiter watches as Shawn, hunched over and stumbling into the kitty litter, adjusts the enormous bag of dog food on his spine and claws blindly at Lassiter's shirt to solicit his help in sharing the weight of twenty-five pounds of pet food. Lassiter vaguely steers Shawn in the direction of the cashier and allows him to stagger the rest of the way on his lonesome.

Parenting a pet, after all, takes effort, much like the kind necessary to wind through endless intermingling lines of leashes, bouncing pets, hissing cats, and children clutching view-obstructing hamster cages while lugging around a month's supply of puppy chow.

O O O O O

Lassiter is, at best, not amused.

He's staring at the boy who cried wolf, not surrounded by criminal activity or intimidating men brandishing arms to commence a hostage situation as he so claimed, but instead, he's met with a stinky bag full of shapeless brown contents that Lassiter prefers remains a mystery to his oblivious ears and a dog attempting to break free from his Shawn's grip on his leash to romp down the beach and proceed to drag sand into the carpet upon returning home.

"Shawn, where is the emergency?" Lassiter grits out, teeth gnashing, "Where are the hoodlums in hoodies threatening people with guns?"

"I smell a misunderstanding," Shawn says, unfurling Lassiter's fist to fold Lassie Jr.'s leash in his palm, "I actually said _serenading_ people with Guns _and Roses_."

"Spencer, _what is this_," Lassiter demands, suddenly aware of the leash in his grip that Lassie Jr. is firmly tugging on in order to venture into the greenery by the sidewalk. "Did you lure me down here just because you and Guster are too busy making smoothies to walk the dog?"

"Lassie, I'm affronted," Shawn says, hands cupping Lassiter's cheeks and squeezing. Lassiter wrangles himself free and frowns until Shawn pokes at the creases in his forehead. "Lassie Jr. and I were just having a talk and he told me that he's missing out on the Lassiter lovin'. And since I get some almost every night minus Tuesdays when you do paperwork and Jules sneaks out the back so you can't ask her to do it for you, I think Lassie Jr. deserves some equal distribution of looooove."

"Shawn, if you fabricate ludicrous crimes every time you want me to walk the dog, I won't feel guilty sticking you in the holding cell for a night."

"If you're up for a little police officer roleplay, all you had to do was ask."

Shawn wiggles his eyebrows in suggestion. Lassiter stares up at the sky, hoping to channel the patience that angelic cherubs currently watching him from the clouds of heaven might possess, and lets the air slowly escape from his teeth in a slow huff. The clouds and cherubs swim by and wordlessly mock him. Lassiter looks down at the ratty leash in his hand and back at Shawn's face as the man swoops in to plant a wet, sticky kiss that smells like pineapple ice cream on his cheek. It's not until Lassiter is wiping the residue from his jaw that he realizes that he's just been expertly manipulated.

"Shawn, you are never pulling a stunt like this again," Lassiter warns, and Shawn's innocent grin that stretches his cheeks wide does nothing to convince him.

"I promise," Shawn says, cheeky beam immovable on his lips, "Now are you going to take Lassie Jr. on a walk and start on the man-to-man bonding?"

Lassiter looks down at the puppy trotting around between his legs and idly licking at his polished shoes. It's been a mere few weeks, but Lassie Jr.'s paws are considerably larger and his chocolately eyes are rounder. He's heard Chief Vick on the phone with her husband gush over how large her baby has become after a matter of months, going from a wriggling mass of cotton and toothless smiles to a stumbling and blabbering toddler in a blink. It seems that puppies operate on a similar developmental speed, no longer a handful of fur and high-pitched barks but rather a generous armful of slobbering tongue and untamable golden hair.

Without permission, his neck nods to acquiesce to Shawn's request and his arms are promptly full of one half-chewed rawhide bone, a saliva-slick tennis ball, and an old pair of faded jeans no longer in a condition adequate enough to be used as pants but instead now used as a tug-o-war toy. Shawn kisses him again, this time hitting the corner of his lips, and fondly ruffles Lassie Jr.'s head.

"Don't disappoint your namesake!" Shawn calls, already halfway down the sidewalk and headed straight for the fried chicken stand at the edge of the beach, and Lassiter proceeds to do the impossible and bond with his puppy.

O O O O O

For such a small dog, Lassie Jr. can soak a room in bubbles and bathwater faster than a fireman's hose could administrate a car wash.

His little body looks quite pathetic as he stands knee-deep in the murky bathwater, offering the occasional sniffle to convey the agony of his plight amid the dirty bubbles, fur sopping and slick and making his tiny puppy body seem even tinier. For someone who was fully convinced that Labradors adored water and chased tennis balls into lakes, Lassiter is not amused at Lassie Jr.'s grudge with the bathtub.

Lassie Jr. shifts in the rippling water, wiggling torso starting to contract in a full-body shiver that is two seconds away from turning into a shake that sends water flying onto the mirror, floor tiles, and directly on Lassiter's pristine tie even while it's securely clipped away from the pandemonium. Lassiter jumps at the sight as the dog's tail jiggles in warning for the downpour that is to come from every angle and quickly attempts to still Lassie Jr.'s body by vigorously rubbing pet shampoo on his back and into the strands of his glossy, sodden fur. Lassiter's thumbs quickly work the shampoo into a lather that leaves Lassie Jr. sheathed in a soapy sweater that he threatens to shake off in protest a few seconds later.

"No! No, not again!" Lassiter warns in an authoritative voice usually reserved for the interrogation room and executed alongside a speedy retrieval of his gun, but Lassie Jr. is not intimidated and proceeds to shake his floppy ears and squirming torso until Lassiter's shirt is no longer dotted with suds and droplets of water, but rather sufficiently doused. He pries open his eyes once the attack simmers to an end and wipes the bubbles latched onto his forehead away.

"Should I have brought a watergun to the party? Because it wasn't specified on the invitation."

Lassiter's head snaps up to watch Shawn delicately step over a puddle pooling by the sink and kneel beside the bathtub rim to scratch the soapy puppy behind the ears, cooing a greeting before reaching over to ruffle Lassiter's hair with his damp fingers.

"Shawn, I called you two hours ago saying I needed help washing the dog," Lassiter jabs an accusatory finger in Shawn's chest, leaving a round, wet dot in the wake of his prod, "_Your_dog."

Shawn hastens to flatten his palms over Lassie Jr.'s sopping ears, mouth forming an indignant _o_ at Lassiter's disgruntled speech as he hisses in his direction, "_Our_dog, Lassie! It's our dog!"

Lassiter rolls his eyes and snatches a towel off the rack to dab at his moist face and the beads of bathwater peppered on the skin exposed from the sliver of his shirt, holding the towel in front of his face as a cottony shield as Lassie Jr. commences another session of fierce wiggling.

"Fine! It's our dog!" Lassiter howls, cautiously lowering his woolly protection as the shaking comes to another stop and Shawn hurries to rinse off the leftover suds before lifting the dog from his wet prison within the bathtub, dumping him unceremoniously onto the bath rug and snatching the towel from Lassiter's grip to vigorously rub the moisture from his golden coat.

"See? He's all cute again," Shawn murmurs as he scoops Lassie Jr. into his arms and envelops him in the towel. His moist paws hang out from the towel's cocoon, little bits of damp fur spiked in hapharzard directions as the aftermaths from Shawn's vigorous toweling off as if his head is attempting to channel lost television signals. Lassiter reaches out to smooth down the wayward bits of fur with his thumb, finger receiving a generous amount of wet licks from Lassie Jr.'s pink tongue in thanks as he pulls his hand back.

"Now, maybe," Lassiter mutters, but his hand ignores his lingering disgruntlement of bathing a temperamental puppy believing an innocent tub of water to be lethal molten lava and continues to scratch Lassie Jr. behind the ears, "You conveniently missed the part where I wrangled him into the bathtub and nearly lost an eye."

O O O O O

The first thing Lassiter notices when he gets home is that everything is dark.

His first instinct is to worry, considering that Shawn always makes it home first, turns on the lights, and proceeds to make a variety of overcooked pasta dishes that Lassiter still eats for the sake of appreciating being cooked for. His mind, trained to resort to paranoia at the first sign of abnormality, flips through a myriad of scenarios in which Shawn has been kidnapped, injured, or otherwise compromised in a position where Lassiter will ultimately have to draw his gun and rescue his boyfriend from whatever malarkey he's managed to immerse himself neck-deep in.

He's a few steps down a shadow-darkled hallway away from drawing his gun and calling Guster to attempt to confirm Shawn's survival in whatever situation the pair has undoubtedly wormed themselves in despite his and Shawn's plans to enjoy a homemade dinner on the sofa together tonight, or, in the case that Shawn burns the frozen appetizers to a sizzled crisp in the microwave oven, improvised take out from the Chinese restaurant down the street, when the soft flickering of a candle catches his eye, followed by another candle, propped up next to another.

He squints, scrutinizing the dark scene in front of him. He sidesteps the eclipsed obstacle of the hat rack and zeroes in on yet more clumps of candles pooling wax on the kitchen counter. He considers unlatching his gun from its harness when he turns around and is met with, instead of the welcomed illumination of a nearby lamp, Shawn sitting innocently at their dining room table adorned with two mismatched candles dripping wax onto the tablecloth alongside two artfully arranged plates. Through the meek radiance of the candlelit, Lassiter spies a mass of spaghetti resting on his plate and a similar, yet half-eaten mass of noodles on Shawn's plate across the table.

"Shawn, this looks a lot like a fire hazard," Lassiter says slowly, carefully counting each dusty candle dug out from the storage closets and out for display on every flat surface in the house. "These flames may look harmless now, but if you're not careful, something will catch fire and—"

"Shh, shh, shhh," Shawn's voice, rather sultry, drawls as he rises from the table and approaches Lassiter, hands landing on his shoulders and gently kneading with firm thumbs. It, miraculously enough considering for how many years the sound of Shawn Spencer's voice spiked Lassiter's hair on end, manages to mollify him in the soothing glow of the candlelight. It licks up Shawn's face and baths the left hemisphere of his face in a nearly romantic radiance, and that's when Lassiter makes the connection that he's being treated to an amorous evening.

"Where's the dog?"

The left corner of Shawn's lips twitch upward in a lopsided smile that clearly foretells the mischief simmering in the evening. He smells hormones, hunger, and spaghetti.

"With Gus for the evening," Shawn whispers, fingertips flitting up Lassiter's flanks to rest on the small of his back. He leans in, tip of his nose pushing against Lassiter's, and murmurs atop his lips, "Now. Do you want some of these meatballs?"

"You made meatballs?"

"Actually, I was talking about the ones I grow myself," Shawn says, all smug smile that vivifies his boyish charm, and Lassiter vaguely wonders when he let himself succumb to falling in love with a prepubescent boy clearly trapped in a grown man's body.

Somehow, the dinner is forgotten. Lassiter can't recall ever dismissing the meal in favor of the rapid discarding of his shirt and the commencing of an animalistic make out session on the nearest wall, but the jump in his memory has led him to the less than inopportune moment in which he's responsible for pinning Shawn up against the wall and swiftly unbuttoning his pants to make room for raunchier endeavors. He thinks of the floor, free of puppy paws whining for attention at his ankles, of Shawn's hands, busied fisting Lassiter's shirt instead of petting Lassie Jr.'s soft head, and of the delectable muffled groans slipping from Shawn's lips to be swallowed promptly by Lassiter's mouth. He is suddenly immensely grateful that Guster, while usually helpful only when pharmaceuticals or the art of tap-dancing is present, agreed to watch the dog for one night for the sake of his own sexual release.

Even with the confirmation that there will be no furry interruptions for the remainder of the night, Lassiter's hands are still hasty in their task to rid Shawn of all offending garments keeping him from reducing the man sandwiched between his chest and the cool wall to a series of unintelligible groans of delight. He pulls back from the wet heat of Shawn's dexterous mouth and trails a line of licks and sucks down his neck where he pays particular attention to the curve of Shawn's jaw and the shadows reflecting off his jugular. He bites, as much as he damn well wants, leaving marks that will be purpled blotches of clear possession come morning when he soothes the burn with gentle rubs of his fingers when they share a hurried morning shower under the spray of water that mollifies their pleasantly sore muscles. Shawn responds to all of it with receptive contributory emotions, tiny moans conveying his satisfaction along with little thrusts of his hips that remind Lassiter exactly where his goal is.

As much as he enjoys teasing Shawn to the brink of unbridled begging, he takes mercy on the writhing man in front of him and slots their bodies together until every bit of skin, some bits torturously clothed, touches. The clothes are undoubtedly in the way, and with one growl of impatience, Lassiter yanks on Shawn's shirt to pull it off his chest and away from his body. It lands gracefully on the lampshade and is rapidly followed by Lassiter's jacket and holster. Lassiter feels the spark from their bare chests rubbing together and is instantly enamored with the sight Shawn's naked torso open for grabs. He leans in and licks over a pebbled nipple.

"Jesus, Carlton," Shawn breathes, hands tangling in Lassiter's hair until it is an unruly mess, and Lassiter internally smiles. Hearing his first name slip from Shawn's mouth is always a rarity reserved exclusively for moments of passion when Shawn slides entirely into Lassiter's control with absolute trust of his unrelenting hands and insistent mouth. It's not Lassidophilus or Carly and the Chocolate Factory, it's _Carlton_, two syllables slipped into one breathy gasp that exists in lieu of any filthy praise Shawn could deliver could he coherently regain control over his vocabulary while Lassiter trails his tongue steadily southward toward his ultimate destination.

Ever since the conversation in the dog food aisle of the pet store that smelled of animal drool, Lassiter has been thinking about Shawn's offhand comment regarding any future endeavors involving child adoption, Russian or not. He's not a man fond of waiting, much less of paperwork, not when he's a man of the badge who operates on justice and black and whites and is blessed with a forte strictly limited to police work, not being a patient father who could play baseball in the backyard and provide paternal advice with trivial childhood concerns like how to tie shoelaces. Still, here he is, lips latched onto Shawn's hips and fingers removing his boxers, and the first thing his mind supplies is concerns that Guster knows that Lassie Jr. needs a walk at nine o'clock or he'll leave a less than pleasant puddle in the carpet by morning. He looks up at Shawn from in between his legs.

"Guster knows how to take care of a dog, right?"

"Not now, Lassie," Shawn says, part incredulous at the fact that Lassiter interrupted sex with talk of the puppy he's been condemning for multiple weeks and equal parts impressed at his newfound sensitivity regarding dogs. He pushes back a wayward strand of hair behind Lassiter's ear and squirms against the wall. "But I'll make sure to tell Lassie Jr. that you care so much. Maybe send him an e-card for you."

Lassiter bites back the rebuke that eloquently demands Shawn to shut up and instead achieves his goal with a route that requires more ingenuity. It takes only two licks and one slow suck on Shawn's erection once it's freed from the confines of his boxers until the leftover quips lingering on Shawn's tongue are efficiently thwarted. Shawn's hands fly back to grip onto Lassiter's short locks, fingers scratching at his scalp and mouth letting loose sinfully R-rated moans that all go straight to Lassiter's dick. Despite his steadily tightening pants cutting off the circulation lower than his hipbones, Lassiter ignores his own pleas for release and focuses his attention solely on the task at hand.

Regardless of Lassiter's very heterosexual marriage prior to meeting Shawn Spencer in the Santa Barbara interrogation rooms years ago, Lassiter surreptitiously prides himself on his blowjobs. They're always a bit wet, always a bit messy, and whenever he's done he wants nothing more than a swig of mouthwash, but let it be said that Carlton Lassiter does enjoy the musky scent and sharp taste of precome beading on his tongue while he wraps his lips around Shawn's length and proceeds to bring him closer to heaven.

The noises, Lassiter thinks, are the best part. Shawn does not disappoint while being on the receiving end of ecstasy. He writhes, shifts, moans, thrusts, grabs, and whimpers when it's just right, and it only encourages Lassiter to up the ante. He grips Shawn's hips in his nimble fingers and angles them to his liking while he lets Shawn's erection slide in and out of the wet cavern of his mouth, tongue licking over the crown and digging into the slit after a good handful of times doing this has gained him experience on exactly what makes Shawn lose his control. He loves moments like this, when despite all of Shawn's insufferable psychic shtick, constant interruptions of humor, and dramatic entrances in his crime scenes, Lassiter's still in control when it comes to reducing Shawn to the peak of his sexual ecstasy. He licks a stripe up his cock and revels in the shudder that wracks Shawn's body, Shawn's hands digging bruises into Lassiter's shoulders when he's overloaded with his hormonal bliss.

"W-wait," Shawn manages, eyes half-mast and drooped with lust as he meekly pulls Lassiter up from his knees, "Not like this. Want you in me."

Lassiter growls, growls like he's a depraved animal smelling blood, and wastes no time in lathering two fingers in his mouth with the aid of saliva and swiveling Shawn around to face the wall. It's a thrill for Lassiter when he has the power like this, and if Shawn's broken moan as he tries to find purchase on the wall with his sweaty fingers is any clue, Shawn enjoys the submission just as much. He spreads his legs and presses his cheek against the cool surface of the wall while Lassiter molds his chest against Shawn's back, damp with sweat at the knobs of his spine as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the curve of his neck and slithers his hand between their bodies. Somewhere in between leaving dark, swollen marks on Shawn's shoulder and gripping the globes of his ass, Lassiter musters up the restraint to shuck off his pants and boxers and kick them across the floor, erection eager for attention and pressed against the back of Shawn's thigh. Shawn only whines and grinds against Lassiter's body and it takes all of Lassiter's trained self-control not to thrust against the slick invitation of the groove of Shawn's ass and end the party early.

"C'mon," Shawn whines, catching Lassiter's gaze over his shoulder, and Lassiter ducks in to press a heated kiss to the corner of his lips, "Carlton."

Lassiter doesn't need multiple requests to get to work. He winds an arm around Shawn's torso, keeping their bodies close and sticky, right hand sliding down to press against his hole. His thumb rubs over the fluttering muscle, throat rumbling with another impatient growl at the thought of sliding into the tight heat of Shawn's body, and without further delay, he slides his saliva-slick index finger into his entrance. Shawn lets out another moan, muffled against the wall, and Lassiter slides in deeper, finger gently prodding for his prostate until he strikes gold and Shawn shudders against him with a poorly stifled cry of gratification.

"So loud," Lassiter mumbles on the slick skin of Shawn's shoulder, but he isn't reprimanding. He can't help but be motivated by Shawn's vocal abandon, lips pressing against the curve of the lobe of his ear while he eases in a second finger and stretches him gingerly. Shawn shifts and swivels his hips, deeming the tenderness superfluous even if his ass will inevitably protest come tomorrow morning.

"Want you," Shawn says, parroting the impatient movements of his hips with his words, and Lassiter's need to acquiesce almost overwhelms his necessity to take his time while he's dealing with something as admittedly delicate as Shawn's ass after experiencing a night of rough ardency and little preparation himself.

"Trying to be _careful_," Lassiter grits out, even though the argument feels weak not only to his ears, but also to the throbbing dick in between his thighs. He pushes in another finger, Shawn's wince brief at the intrusion, and Lassiter takes another tantalizing handful of seconds to stretch and scissor his fingers before his patience starves and ceases to leave room for more slow fingering. "Ready?"

"Finally, this show is on the road," Shawn says, and Lassiter can hear the grin without seeing it. He turns Shawn back around, pushing him against the wall and bodily wrapping one of his legs around his waist to hitch him up his body at a convenient angle, foreheads pressed together as they share another frenzied kiss.

Lassiter pulls back from their kiss, one hand supporting the bare leg wrapped around his hips, and meets Shawn's eyes, a fusion of greens and golds that shine more clearly here in the candlelight while Lassiter lines himself up with his entrance and meets his gaze than they do in the daytime. Shawn leans in, kisses him hard and fiercely, letting his lips speak the words his mouth rarely does, and Lassiter gently nods, foreheads bumping together. He brushes their cheeks together, matching evening stubble leaving a pleasant burn on his jaw, and pushes in.

The heat that swallows at Lassiter's erection is immediate. It pulls the breath from Shawn's lungs like a vacuum in a sharp gasp that has him gripping Lassiter's shoulders and biting his lower lip until Lassiter is fully sheathed, his own lungs dry from lack of air as he slides in without a single inhale to break his smooth thrust. The angle is awkward, hips bent as he pushes in, but the cumbersome slant of his legs is worth the view. He likes being able to watch Shawn's face, feel the small exhales on his cheek when he gains a rhythm, watch the fluctuation of the color of his eyes, witness the pleasure course through his expressions rather than turn him around and nip at his spine and burrow his nose into the bristly strands of hair at the hem of Shawn's neck.

"Good?" Lassiter whispers, intensely aware of Shawn's reactions as he gently swivels his hips and readjusts, relief trickling down his limbs at the sound of Shawn's soft moan.

"Excellent. Actually, that's not good enough. Superb. Is superb better?" Shawn says, and pries open one eye to examine Lassiter and offer him a smile, "Start moving."

Lassiter is happy to oblige, offering Shawn a grateful exhale as he buries his nose in the crook of his sweaty neck and pulls back out until only the head of his cock is stretching the rim of Shawn's glistening, tempting hole, pushing back in with a swift thrust that has Shawn moaning brokenly and clinging to Lassiter's arms.

"Again," he orders shakily, and for a man who doesn't take orders well, Lassiter doesn't argue once. He starts up a rhythm that slowly gains smoothness, the push of his dick matching the thrust of Shawn's hips. Shawn whimpers by his ear and maneuvers Lassiter's hand to wrap around his length, sticky from precome and hard as nails as Lassiter indulges in his yearning for a strong fist, pumping him alongside the push and pull of his erection sliding steadily in and out of Shawn's hole. He knows that Shawn is still unbearably high strung from the teasing of Lassiter's tongue on his cock that left him quivering and craving release and is in no mood to do anything but blow Shawn's psychic mind until it spins on its axis and needs to be reattached to his neck.

For once in his life, Shawn Spencer shuts up, and that, Lassiter thinks—no, _knows_—is the beauty of having sex. He bites over already darkening marks on Shawn's neck, merciless with his teeth and tongue as he hitches Shawn's leg higher up his hip and increases the tempo of his thrusts. The delicious friction of Shawn's dick in his hand and the tight fluttering of Shawn's muscles constricting and swallowing down his cock is addictive, more satisfying than pulling his trigger or accelerating his car up the freeway when he's in pursuit. He speeds up and Shawn matches him, rubbing back against his thrusts with a fierceness that is equally alive, and it only takes a series of four, five, six more thrusts before Shawn comes with a cry in Lassiter's neck and Lassiter follows three seconds later.

The stickiness becomes uncomfortable after two minutes of breathless pants and lazy kisses up one another's damp necks, a cooling puddle of crusting come shared between their chests no longer part of the heat and passion of sex. Shawn laughs and tips Lassiter's chin up to press a soft kiss to his lips before he slides his leg down from around his waist and stands limp against the wall.

"Does anyone else feel like one of those LEGO people who got disconnected from their legs? Because I don't know if I'm walking anywhere anytime soon."

Lassiter smirks, limbs sated and bones heavy in his muscles as he stretches his shoulders, "There are about three dozen candles for you to blow out before you're going anywhere near the bed."

Shawn whines, heavy weight of a boneless body suddenly draped over Lassiter's arm, "But Lassie, I could think of other things I'd rather be blowing that might be more fun for both of us."

Lassiter, jaw itching with a forthcoming yawn and limbs hardly managing to keep him upright as his brain fights the post-coital sleepiness threatening to pull him into slumber right here against Shawn's chest by the wall, is suddenly wide awake once more.

One hour later when the candles have been blown out, the bed sheets have become damp with beads of sweat, and Shawn's nose is pressed into the crook of Lassiter's neck and his leg is thrown over his hips as they squeeze together into the corner of the bed to avoid the wet spot, Lassiter vaguely misses the weight of a furry head resting atop his chest and a tiny wet nose nudging him awake the next morning.

O O O O O

Lassiter, a man who has never found a halcyon breeze or a bright Sunday sun worthy of his list of small pleasures, has to admit that he's enjoying his afternoon at the park.

There's a simple beauty to be admired in the Santa Barbara air as Lassiter scans the area, eyes meeting group after group of beachgoers and outdoorsmen, ranging from a group of teenagers splayed out on a shady patch of grass, a lone surfer tugging at his wetsuit, a pair of roller skaters with their hands intertwined as they skirt past joggers on the sidewalk, women with sun-kissed skin and wavy hair passing a volleyball back and forth on the beach, and then, barreling straight in his direction, a bite-sized blur of fur and an energetic Shawn Spencer careening his direction.

Lassiter's instincts tell him to roll off the bench and draw his gun at the sight of a full grown man running at him at maximum speed threatening to send him toppling hard into the grass, but then Shawn comes to a skidded halt a few feet prior to a nasty landing and Lassie Jr. swiftly jumps onto Lassiter's lap. There are a few grass stains on Shawn's pants with matching bits of dried leaves in the dog's fur, both of them the epitome of two small children playing in a pile of muddy leaves on an autumn day. Lassiter wonders if when he agreed to date Shawn Spencer he actually was coerced into adopting an overgrown boy and scratches behind Lassie Jr.'s ears.

"Does he know how to sit yet?"

"Unfortunately, only if you say it in German," Shawn says, offering a shrug, "I'm trying to teach him English tricks, but turns out he's a bit too concerned with chasing squirrels."

"Shawn, the only reason I agreed to go here is so you could teach the rascal how to sit and stay."

"Don't worry, Carly Fries, I'm a psychic. Lassie Jr. will be doing cartwheels by the end of the day thanks to our telepathic link."

"Telepathic link?" Lassiter says slowly, pulling off his sunglasses to survey the progress Shawn's completed. Shawn holds up a treat, affectionately coined a _seafood delight_from the overpriced bag from the pet store, and tosses it in Lassie Jr.'s direction. There is no rolling, playing dead, or impressive canine speaking imitating human language. Lassie Jr. yips, demanding praise, and gulps down the kernel without chewing or tasting. Shawn claps.

"So, not quite reaching the note Nicole Kidman hit in _Your Song_at the end there in Moulin Rouge, but we're getting there," Shawn says, scratching his jaw and reaching for another treat hidden in his pocket. Lassie Jr. bounces and pants in anticipation until a puddle of drool gathers in the grass.

"This is pathetic."

Shawn shoots him a look, gathering Lassie Jr. in his arms and nuzzling his fuzzy neck. Picking him up is no longer a feat that can be completed without muscled arms, requiring a sturdy grip and immunity to an onslaught of slobbery kisses. Shawn's legs threaten to buckle as his center of gravity is shifted with the overwhelming weight of a steadily growing golden Labrador perched in the nook of his elbow.

"Don't even try and tell me that you don't _love this face_," Shawn coos, stroking and scratching underneath Lassie Jr.'s chin, and Lassiter looks steadfastly away from the deceptive brown eyes of his pet that speechlessly managed to coax him into relinquishing ownership of the remaining quarter of his juicy steak last night. He can only distract his eyes to the children roughhousing over a Frisbee for too long, however, before the worming body in front of him steals his attention. He obligatorily rolls his eyes before reaching out to scratch under Lassie Jr.'s slobbery chin.

"_Fine_," he confesses, cheeks pinking as Shawn grins, "I do."

Lassiter's got about fifteen years left of this furry bundle. He might as well start loving him now.

_There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face._ -**Ben Williams  
**  
_A/N: _I fell for this ship hard. Shipping canon pairings would have been so much easier, but this is so much more fun. This pairing kills me in all the right ways. This story was inspired by the show _Too Cute_ which can reaffirm any pessimist's faith in humanity in under an hour.


End file.
